You Shouldn't Have
by GreyMajesty
Summary: Neal does a lot of things he shouldn't. Some come at a higher price than others.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own White Collar, regrettably. All recognizable characters belong to Jeff Eastin. Please review and comment!

Two men took the elevator to the third floor of the apartment building at 2:25 in the afternoon. One wore a tie with a hidden microphone transmitter, the other a tracking anklet tucked under long pants. The man with the anklet flipped his hat off and then back on before picking up a nondescript briefcase and following his partner out of the elevator, expressing his wish for a cup of coffee. The man with the tie snorted and then tapped his tie. They went to the third door down and knocked on the residence of one A. Smith. Outside the building, a block away, a white van was parked alongside the curb. It was full of monitors, recording equipment, and two federal agents listened in on the conversation taking place, waiting for something to happen.

They didn't have to wait long.

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Peter raced down the last flight of stairs, out the front doors, and around the corner of the building, hearing shots ring out behind him. A bullet winged the edge of the building, shooting brick and plaster shards into his face even as he brought up a hand. He rounded the corner, cursing his suit pants and coat.

 _Damn this sting operation!_

He looked behind him for a moment to see Neal several feet behind him.

"Diana, we're rounding the south entrance."

"We have people ready and Jones and I are pulling up now. Take the alley to your left."

He heard feet behind him, and he sprinted down the narrow alley, seeing police cars and the van ahead. Something streaked past him to his right, and he turned his head to see Neal racing past him, suit barely hindering the kid. Peter swore as his dress shoe caught on a cobblestone, and Neal slowed for a moment to grab him before he fell.

"Move!" Neal yanked him forward, blue eyes slightly panicked as a cluster of guys came around the corner with guns in hand. Peter automatically reached for his handgun before remembering it was in the van.

More gunshots rang out as they reached the blockade, and Neal vaulted a barrier with only a slight stumble before reaching out a hand to Peter, the other clamped firmly around the wrapped painting. Peter made it over and turned to see their armed pursuers stop dead as they saw the three police cars and the handful of FBI vehicles blocking their path. It would have been funny if his heart weren't still racing. Jones and a group of other agents cuffed them before tucking them into police cars.

"Let's see...Attempted murder of a federal agent, larceny, and-" Peter watched as one of the guys attempted to kick Diana as she stuffed him in the backseat. "Resisting arrest. Not to mention a handful of other things." He turned to look at Neal, who was perched on the edge of the barricade, one hand tucked under his suit jacket.

"Caffrey, anything you'd like to add?"

Neal shifted on the barrier and looked up at Peter.

"Painting's there." He touched it lightly with a foot. "Young Woman with a Water-" He coughed and then hunched over. "Classic Vermeer." He raised his fingers up to eye level and Peter saw the tips were coated in blood.

"Neal!" Peter grabbed Neal's arm and eased him to the ground. "Somebody call a bus!"

"They're already en route, we called after we heard the first shot." Diana was hovering over his shoulder.

"Good," Peter muttered distractedly, peeling back Neal's suit jacket. The crisp white shirt underneath was marred with a deep red stain creeping along his friend's left side. He finally managed to locate the source of the bleeding, which was just under his partner's ribcage.

"Damnit, Neal."

Neal blinked slowly. "Guess it winged me when I was getting over. S'not-" He coughed again, deep and wet. "Not so bad."

"Not so bad?" Peter said, incredulous. He grabbed Neal's jacket and pressed it down, hard. Neal grunted and curled in on himself.

"Two minutes out, Peter." Diana pushed Neal down so he was flat on his back. "Hang in there, Caffrey."

Neal looked up at Peter with confusion. "You're bleeding."

"I'm pretty sure you are right now, buddy, not me." Neal's arm came up, one bloody finger hovering around Peter's temple.

"There."

Peter wiped his face on his sleeve and saw red. "Must've caught some debris with the side of my face. It's fine." He lifted the jacket to look at the wound.

"It's slowing." Peter looked at Diana. "That's a good thing, right?" She pursed her lips.

"It depends on how much blood he's lost." Both of them looked at the ground, which was staining rust red. They sat in silence for a moment until Peter looked down and saw Neal's eyes slipping closed. He tapped Neal's face.

"Hey. No sleeping." One bleary blue eye peered up at him.

"Wasn't sleeping. Resting."

"Right now there isn't really a difference. Talk, Caffrey." Neal's head rolled back against the ground.

"About what?"

"I don't care," Peter said in desperation. "Tell me about painting."

"S' great. You should... try it sometime. There's just you and your thoughts-" Neal choked on a breath- "and the brush. I like oil best, but it's so...fussy."

"Why?" Peter asked, desperate to keep Neal conscious.

"...All the details. The process." His eyes slipped shut for a moment and then refocused on Peter, who realised that Diana had disappeared.

"Sorry, I might have bled on the painting."

Peter felt the corner of his mouth twitch up in a smile. Trust Neal to be worried about the art more than himself.

"We'll figure something out. I don't think this is coming out, though." He gestured to the ruined shirt.

"No," Neal said, relaxing as the sound of sirens wailed in the distance. "I doubt it will. I liked this tie." He paused for a breath.

"June won't be-"

"I think she'll just be happy you're alright."

"Don't count your chickens, Peter." He winced as Peter pushed down harder abruptly, giving his partner a glare.

"I'm not going to let you disappoint June."

Neal coughed again, wet and deep, and a trickle of blood crept up the fabric between Peter's fabric and onto his fingers. He tried to adjust his hands but Neal winced. Peter froze.

"Neal?"

"What, Peter?"

"Lie still, okay? Keep breathing." Peter's voice shook and he cursed himself as Neal looked alarmed. He hadn't come this far with Caffrey just to loose him to stupid art thieves and their sloppy work escaping.

"You're the one...mashing my side…" Peter didn't find the sarcasm reassuring.

"You act like you want to bleed out."

Neal smiled like his mouth weighed a couple pounds more than usual.

"Listen, Peter…I just want to say thanks."

"Ah, nope." Peter removed a hand just enough to tap a clean finger on Neal's nose, startling the consultant. "Cowboy up, Neal, because you're not dying here today. I'm not going to hear any more of whatever you're going to try."

Tired blue eyes met blazing brown ones. A war of wills.

Peter tried not to think about the opposition.

Neal's head rolled back onto the gravel as an ambulance pulled to a stop at the curb and two EMS workers jumped out with a gurney, led over by Diana. Peter moved out of their way as they surrounded Neal in a bustle of activity, ignoring the dampness of drying blood between his fingers.

"What've we got?"

"Male, late 20's, GSW to the left side. Bleeding is controlled for now. Patient is unresponsive to stimuli."

Peter felt as though his heart was suddenly and abruptly filling with icy water. He pushed back over to Neal, who was pale and still.

"Neal?!"

 _No no no no no no no_

Someone caught his sleeve. It was the female paramedic, whose nametag said Mary.

"He's just unconscious right now. We need to move him to the ambulance, quickly, to get him set up with a blood transfusion." Peter walked with the gurney until they reached the bus, where he stopped to take in the name of the hospital.

"Sir, he's awake. And asking for you."

Peter went to the back of the ambulance, where Neal was being loaded. Neal looked half-buried amongst the numerous tubes and wires, but his chest rose and fell reassuringly. Peter let out a sigh.

"Neal?"

"Peter?" Neal tipped his head back as Mary joined him. "What's happening?"

"You were shot, Neal, remember? They're taking you to the hospital and I'll be behind you as soon as I can."

"Could you-could you call Mozzie for me?"

"Sure, Neal."

The other paramedic moved to the front of the ambulance and climbed in the driver's seat. "You can ride with us and get that gash looked at. Come on."

Peter waved to Diana and then climbed up inside, taking a seat across from Neal, who looked half-asleep as the doors closed behind them. The ambulance started up and then set off, siren wailing. Mary took a seat next to Peter and began cleaning his gash.

"He's unconscious but stable. Is there any family members you'd like to call for him?" Peter looked at Neal, illuminated by the harsh lighting.

"No, there aren't any to call. Just my wife and his friend."

Mary frowned and then considered Peter's head. "You shouldn't need stitches. I'll tape it up for you and we can take it from there." She looked at Neal, who was now sleeping.

"He's lucky. The bullet went between two ribs." She affixed a butterfly bandage to his forehead and went back to Neal. All he could see of his consultant was a swath of dark hair and the lax side of his face, looking drawn and flat, a far cry from his usual animated self.

His hands felt numb as he flipped through his contacts to call Elizabeth and Mozzie. The sound of the siren wailing loudly pushed away all feelings of luck Peter might have had.

Neal shouldn't have gotten shot at all.


	2. Chapter 2

I still don't own White Collar. All recognizable characters belong to Jeff Eastin. It looks like there will be one or two more chapters to finish this up. Please review!

" _His hands felt numb as he flipped through his contacts to call Elizabeth and Mozzie. The sound of the siren wailing loudly pushed away all feelings of luck Peter might have had._

 _Neal shouldn't have gotten shot at all."_

Peter had hardly been in the waiting room for fifteen minutes before Elizabeth was there, wrapping her warm arms around his waist and melting the block of ice his heart had become. The blank panic of watching his partner roll through the swinging double doors had calmed somewhat, but he couldn't get through the emotional landslide happening inside of him. He looked down at his hands, now scrubbed viciously clean of Neal's blood in the men's room. They still looked a little red around the nail beds.

"Peter."

He set down the now-cool cup of coffee clenched in his hand and looked down into his wife's beautiful eyes. Blue eyes. Like Neal's.

He shook his head and tried to shut out the wailing of a family down the hall.

"Hi, hun." He glanced around the clinic. "Is Mozzie coming?"

Elizabeth sighed. "He said he'd come as soon as there was more news. Even Neal being in surgery wasn't enough to persuade him to come in immediately. Something about hospital narcs."

Peter snorted.

"Has there been any news?"

Peter ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "No, nothing. I tried, but they said it'll be a few hours."

"What happened? I thought Smith was non-violent?" Elizabeth took off her jacket and settled into an uncomfortable waiting room chair.

"He was. We had him on the ropes- I was going to get a confession out of him cleanly that he'd been dealing in forgeries and selling them off, but then one of his guys saw the edge of Neal's tracker under his pant leg and that was it. He pulled a gun on us and the others followed suit. Luckily, we were by a door and managed to get out. The prospect of shooting a federal agent didn't seem to faze them."

Elizabeth put a hand on his arm just as his phone rang loudly. The old couple a few seats down from them gave them a dirty look.

"This is Burke."

"Peter." It was Diana. "We got Smith down in interrogation A. His guys are talking, but he's not. I told him we had enough to convict him with already-one of the guys even had a picture on his phone of some of the works- but he's holding his tongue." She paused. "How's Caffrey?"

Peter felt a little of the tension escape him. "There's no news yet, but I'll keep you updated. I'll be back to the bureau as soon as I can."

"There's no hurry." Diana sounded satisfied. She lowered her voice. "You doing ok, boss?"

"I'm fine," Peter replied quickly. He winced. Maybe too quickly. "I just have a scrape from some building shards."

"You know that's not what I meant."

Peter took a long breath in through his nose.

"I know. I'm fine, Diana. I'll be better once I know more about Neal." Elizabeth was watching him, he knew. He could practically feel her eyes on his back.

"Look, boss, I have to get back in there. Call us once you know more."

"I will. Thanks, Diana." He clicked the phone shut and slid it into his suit coat, feeling the weight settle.

He turned to head back down toward the nurse's station only to feel Elizabeth's hand on his arm.

"Peter, pushing your badge isn't going to get the doctor to work any faster." She patted the seat next to her and pulled a manilla folder from her purse. "Why don't you take a look at these paint samples I pulled for the guest bedroom?" She handed him a few samples and began reading a magazine.

And just like that, she calmed the torrent inside him, distracted him for a brief moment from the thoughts that wouldn't leave.

Neal woke up and felt fuzzy.

His head felt stuffed with lint, and there was a nasty taste in his mouth, like dry copper. Swallowing brought only a round of dry coughs, and a dull pain in his side. He opened his eyes.

The ceiling was white tile, fairly new. He stared at it for a while until he gradually became aware of a steady beeping. He turned his head to the left and saw a monitor steadily beeping away. Right in front of it was a glass of water on a little table.

He cast out his arm to pick it up and his limp fingers smacked into the glass, sending it teetering away. A hand filled his vision, picked up the cup, and held it to his lips.

"Here, Neal."

He sipped obligingly, and looked up to see Peter, a line furrowing his brow. He was too sleepy to notice the lines around Peter's eyes, or the creases in his suit. He pulled his head away from the cup, and Peter put it back on the nightstand.

"How are you feeling?"

Neal blinked at him.

"High." His eyes slipped shut, and when he opened them, Peter was sitting down in the chair next to him. Neal felt a nagging sensation of loss. He was missing something here, a key piece of the puzzle, and he couldn't pull together the thin strands of consciousness to figure it out.

"Do you...do you have to be somewhere? Don't you have to take care of the guy?"

There was a guy, he knew. There had to be.

"No," Peter said, leaning forward and looking at Neal. There was a tiny frown sitting in the corner of his mouth. "Diana's got him."

"Oh," Neal muttered, and rolled his head over the annoyingly flat pillow to look at Peter.

"Are you mad?"

"What? Neal, why would I be mad? You're the one who got shot." Peter pressed his call button.

"Oh."

His head was still floaty. He closed his eyes again.

The next time he woke up, Mozzie was by his side, feet propped carefully on the edge of the covers.

"Did you know that the contemporary artist Cai-Guo Qiang thought he could communicate with aliens through fireworks?'

"Hi Mozz." Neal fiddled with the buttons on the side of his bed until he managed to raise his torso up slightly. He glanced around.

"The suit left to go meet with the other feds about two hours ago," Mozzie said, looking up from the thick book between his fingers for the first time. "I told him I'd watch you until the lady suit got back from lunch. He gave me a weird look."

Neal snorted. Mozzie handed him another glass of deliciously cool water.

"What have I missed?"

"Well, Smith got sent away. They transferred him this morning. You have a very large flesh wound, lost a lot of blood, but punctured nothing. Mr. and Mrs. Suit have been here alternatively almost nonstop, along with their agent friends. And June came by about an hour ago."

Neal felt a pang of remorse for sleeping through all of their time, but then remembered the blood all over the clothes. He'd just found that suit in the back of the closet. Speaking of clothes…

"Mozzie, where's my hat?"

The shorter man bent to rummage in a bag at his feet. He produced a plastic evidence bag through which Neal's favorite fedora was visible. Mozzie pulled out the hat and tossed it into Neal's lap.

"They dropped it off this morning. I figured you'd want it back."

Neal ran his fingers along the brim and flipped it back up onto his head carefully just as the door opened up and Peter stepped through, clutching a styrofoam cup of coffee. Mozzie quickly got to his feet.

"Suit."

"Don't leave on my account," Peter said, settling into the other visitor's chair. Mozzie frowned at him.

"Don't flatter yourself. I have a very important meeting with some ancient clients."

"Leave the bottles on the top row alone," Neal called after his retreating figure. Mozzie did not acknowledge.

Neal looked at Peter.

"He's going to go drink my wine."

"I'm aware. You look...better."

Neal took in Peter's rumpled suit, the smears of purple under his eyes, and the way his nails were bitten down. "How bad was it before?"

Peter was spared from replying by Elizabeth coming back into the room.

"Neal, you're awake! Honey, did you tell him yet?"

Peter looked at the floor. "Not yet."

She carefully smoothed the covers at his side and put her arm around Peter's waist, supporting him as he cleared his throat.

"We want you to come stay with us while you're recovering." Peter held up his hand. "Obviously, it's your choice and all, but it might be easier."

"That would be nice," Neal said, surprising even himself. He looked up at Peter and El, and how worn they looked, and felt bad for the stress he'd put on them, consuming their time and energy while he lay here. "You don't have to, really."

"Sweetie, we want to," Elizabeth said, and that was the end of it.


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own White Collar. All characters belong to Jeff Eastin and the show writers. This is the last chapter!

Neal was sitting propped against the pillows on the guest bedroom, a charcoal pencil held loosely in his fingers as he basked in the early morning sun, when Elizabeth came through the doorway holding a sheaf of papers.

"Hey, Neal. Are you busy?"

He tucked the sketchbook under a spare pillow and turned his crystalline eyes on her.

"Not at all."

"I hate to do this under the circumstances and all, but would you mind if we moved you out to the living room couch for the day? Peter wants to paint the guest bedroom today when he gets home and I figured you wouldn't want to be in here while I'm taping."

"That's alright with me." He slid out of bed slowly, picking up his sketchbook and pencils. It had been a week since he checked out of the hospital, and he was still irritatingly sore, but as long as he moved carefully, he wouldn't get tired. Elizabeth followed, picking up the still-warm duvet cover and helping him settle on the couch. He briefly wondered if she would have done this for her children, when they were home sick. She had a natural tendency to look after things. She headed back upstairs and he heard the sound of furniture being moved. He felt guilty for being unable to help.

Satchmo got up from his patch of sunlight by the back door and pressed a wet and inquisitive nose into Neal's outstretched hand, and Neal ruffled the golden fur just as Elizabeth's phone chirped on the table. She came back downstairs and disappeared into the kitchen.

"This is Elizabeth." Silence for a moment. "What? Hold on, I'll be right there."

He could hear her moving around in the kitchen, and then she appeared in the front entryway, tugging on her shoes. Satchmo abandoned his snuffling and jogged over, tail thumping the wall.

"Is something wrong?"

"What?" Elizabeth opened the closet doors. "Oh, no. Yvonne is just being a little overwhelmed by wedding guests. I'll be back in an hour, tops. I'm sorry I moved you down here for nothing."

"It's ok. The change of scenery is nice." She smiled.

"I'll let Peter know in case I'm out longer than expected. I'm sure he can take lunch." She bustled out the door, Satchmo letting out one sad little whine that he couldn't go along. Neal flipped out his sketch pad and kept working.

Half an hour later he found his eyes drifting to the cans of paint visible on the kitchen table, still sitting in their plastic shopping bag. The Burkes had decided on a cream paint, slightly darker than the existing color. If she wasn't back in the hour he might have to do something with those cans. He could finally do something for the Burkes, for taking care of him, feeding him,getting him his anti-inflammatories and painkillers on time. He hadn't painted a room in ages, or anything for that matter. His brushes and supplies were all back in his apartment. But this was Peter's project. Peter would kill him.

The temptation was nearly unbelievable.

Neal drew the brush from the bucket and pressed it to the corner, going in one flat, even stroke all the way down. The warm cream paint barely dripped down to the tape stretched carefully over the edges of the trim as he drew the edge flush with the wood, and Neal hummed under his breath as he dipped the dark bristles back into the can. As long as Peter and Elizabeth were still at work, he might as well start working on their project. It was the least he could do, if El continued not to let him help cook dinner. He was starting to be bored staying in the house all day, taking a short walk out to the street corner yesterday just for a change of scenery. At least she had already moved the bed and the dresser somewhat away from the walls so he didn't have to worry about struggling with those. He sat down on the floor, glad Peter had stopped at his place to grab him some sweatpants, and made sure the sheet plastic he had found was pressed over the carpet. Then he lost himself.

Thick, wide even strokes against the wall, careful not to drip on the trim. Soon he was done with the edgework and all the corners, the worst spots to get, and was working on the flat expanses, getting the area around a window. He had found a little stepladder in the garage, opting against the big, heavy ladder. He was carefully balanced on it, getting the top half of the wall, when a voice came from behind.

"What...the...hell…"

Neal started violently, like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, and stumbled backward off the ladder, landing on his back. It wasn't high, but it still hurt.

"Jesus Christ, Neal." Someone's warm hand was on his back, and Neal blinked up to see a blue tie flapping in his face, attached to Peter's impeccably stiff collar. He sat up.

"Hey, Peter."

"Hey? Neal, what are you doing?"

Neal picked up the brush that had dropped on the plastic sheeting and looked at Peter like it was self-explanatory, even though he knew that wasn't the answer Peter wanted.

"You were at work and Elizabeth got called out to help with some event trouble, so I figured I'd give you a hand." Peter ran a hand over his face, muttering into it. It sounded something like "Trouble no matter where you are."

Neal studiously ignored this.

"Look, I just figured it would be helpful if I started in on it for you. I'm nearly done, I've just got this wall left. Besides, I thought you'd be home at lunch."

"Neal, it's 12:38." Peter held up his watch. "I think you're due for your meds and we both should eat." He stood and held out a hand. Neal took it and Peter pulled him up, opening the door. "I think it's time we had a talk."

Neal blinked, his internal alarms going off. He was too tired to think about it, though. There was some leftover pumpkin risotto in the fridge that had his name on it.

Peter got down two bowls, opening the refrigerator and taking out the container of risotto from Elizabeth's last catering job. He dropped it in the microwave and Neal bit his tongue, avoiding pointing out the steamer.

"Sit." Peter pointed at the kitchen island and Neal slid onto the stool, wishing he had brought down his fedora from the closet so he had something to occupy his hands with. Peter braced his hands on the counter and faced Neal, looking both frustrated and vaguely fond.

"You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, I'm fine. You just surprised me. I didn't hear you come in." Peter grinned.

"That's a first. Sneaking up on Neal Caffrey." Neal halfheartedly glared at him. Peter spooned risotto into his bowl and put the two familiar tablets on the counter. Neal popped them obligingly and chewed through a mouthful of pumpkin.

"You know," Peter said thoughtfully, sitting down across from him at the island, "You do a lot of things you shouldn't, Caffrey."

Neal looked at him then, point blank.

"No shit."

"That's not what I meant. Yeah, you steal and lie-"

"Allegedly."

"Fine. You live a lifestyle you can't hope to maintain indefinitely and you live on a tether in a multi-million dollar house as an FBI consultant serving out a sentence, but those aren't even the most incredible things."

Neal was getting irritated now. "What do you want me to say, Peter? I turn it around and it still isn't enough for you?"

"What? No! Neal-"

"I'm sorry I'm not doing more to be less, Peter. That I'm living in your house and taking up your time and energy and that I got shot on your sting opp."

"Dammit, Neal!" Peter brought his hand down on the table and Neal flinched, rubbing a hand on his side a moment later, but he stopped talking.

"I meant you do a lot of good things that aren't expected of you, if you'd let me finish." Neal bit down a comment and glared at him.

"You remember anniversaries that aren't even yours, bring Jones coffee in meetings. You paint bedrooms without me asking. You even-" Peter looked at him, head on. "You grabbed me when I tripped as we were running from a gun-wielding art forger even though you could have outpaced me. That's not something people would expect from you. You are a fundamentally good person, Neal, no matter how you try to convince everyone otherwise."

Peter reached out and clamped a hand on his shoulder, and Neal felt a brief burst of pride in himself as he allowed himself a genuine smile, before immediately questioning why he felt this way about a fed and the floundering praise he delivered. His self worth must have dropped low if Peter's bumbling convictions made him content. It was a hollow attempt at convincing himself that these relationships, these people, and their praise meant nothing to him, and he brushed it off. If Peter saw good in him through his actions, then maybe he was doing something with himself other than looking for the next con or a way to toe the line. That was some freudian level thinking he'd leave to Mozzie. His sense of value was an issue for another day, and he wasn't going to analyze why the praise of a fed made him happy.

Not just a fed.

Peter.

"Fundamentally." Neal tried to brush through the moment, wiggling out from under Peter's arm and tapping a beat out on the floor with his foot.

"Well," Peter said ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, "I can't sugarcoat it all, Neal. You've done some things I can't condone, and even more I can't prove. But _you_ have proved to Hughes, Elizabeth, and myself that you are capable of good actions and have helped us run smoother with the knowledge you provide. I may not always know what you're doing or thinking, but I can promise you I will always trust your judgement and you will always have value."

Neal blinked away a sudden wetness in his eyes and gazed studiously at the counter.

"You're the only one to see that in me, Peter." He met the agent's surprised gaze. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Neal."

A hand reached out and ruffled his hair, and Neal scraped out the last spoonful of risotto before rising and rinsing out his bowl.

"How about we finish painting that room so Elizabeth has a surprise?"

Neal grinned at Peter. "That sounds awesome, but you might want to change first."

"What?" Peter looked down. "Oh. Enjoying the irony, are we?"

Neal snickered and headed for the stairs.

Three weeks later, Peter found a large white envelope lying flat on his desk when he came in to work. His head immediately went up to locate Neal, finding the consultant pouring himself a cup of coffee and chatting up an intern. Peter shook his head as he slit the side open and pulled out a painstaking pencil sketch of a photo El had taken. In it, Peter and Neal sat side by side on the couch, case filed spread out on the coffee table and suit jackets folded over the arm of the sofa. The artist had inscribed a single sentence at the bottom of the page, and Peter propped it up against the picture of El on his desk to catch the tiny printing in the light.

 _You saw the good._

Fin.


End file.
